Douglas Preston - Gideon’s Sword

“Oh, and here are his test results. Somebody gave him an IQ test.”

Van Rensselaer examined the results. His face became very still, almost blank, and the paper shook slightly. “I think…” he began slowly. “Under the circumstances…we may be able to find a place for Tyler here at Throckmorton. Of course, we’d still have to meet him and go through the application process.”

“Wonderful!” cried Orchid, clapping her hands. She was really getting into it.

“Please,” Van Rensselaer said, “have a seat.”

“Just a minute,” said Gideon as he sat down. “There are a few things I want to make sure of. First of all, will there be other Asian students in his class? I don’t want him to feel left out.”

“Absolutely,” said Van Rensselaer briskly, switching into full salesmanship mode.

“Like, how many? Not just in the second grade, but in the elementary school. I want to know numbers.”

“Let me get the class lists.” Van Rensselaer called in the receptionist, issued the request. She returned a moment later with a piece of paper. The admissions officer glanced through it, slid it across his desk. “She’s checked the ones of Asian descent.”

Gideon took the paper.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you keep that. We are naturally very protective of our families’ privacy.”

“Oh, sure, sure.” He examined it. Fifteen students. That was his universe. He committed the names to memory.

“I also heard,” he said sternly, laying down the paper, “that there was a serious outbreak of flu on campus.”

“Flu? I don’t think so.”

“That’s what I heard. In fact, I heard that on June seventh, just before graduation, more than three-quarters of the elementary school was out sick.”

“I hardly think that’s possible.” Van Rensselaer called the receptionist back in. “Get me the attendance records for the lower school on June seventh.”

“Very well.”

“How about some coffee?” asked Gideon, eyeing a pot in the corner.

“What? Oh, please excuse me! I should have offered it to you earlier. How negligent.”

“No problem, I’ll take it with extra cream and three sugars.”

“Extra cream and four sugars for me,” said Orchid.

Van Rensselaer rose and fumbled with the coffee himself. As he did so, the receptionist came back. She laid the document on the desk just as Van Rensselaer returned with the coffee. Gideon reached for it as he rose from his chair, and the combined movement somehow caused him to knock the cups and spill coffee all over Van Rensselaer’s desk.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he cried. “What a klutz I am!” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he began mopping up the liquid, wiping the papers, fussing about, shoving everything this way and that.

They all joined in cleaning up the mess, the receptionist returning with paper towels.

“So sorry,” repeated Gideon. “So sorry.”

“No problem,” said Van Rensselaer, his voice tight, surveying the mess of damp, stained papers. “It could happen to anyone.” He brightened up again immediately. “We’d love to see Tyler as soon as possible. Shall we schedule the interview now?”

“I’ll call you,” said Gideon. “Keep the file. We gotta run.”

A few minutes later they were out in the car, driving through the wrought-iron gates. Orchid was almost helpless with laughter. “Jeez, you’re funny, you know that? I couldn’t believe the look on that guy’s face. He thought we were just awful people. Awful. I know all about guys like that — they always want blow jobs, ’cause their wives don’t like to get a—”

“Right, right,” said Gideon, hoping to head the conversation in another direction. “He wanted to save poor Tyler from us, that much was obvious.”

“So what’s the point? Why the charade? And don’t give me any more shit about Method acting.”

The class lists and June 7 attendance records were now safely in Gideon’s jacket pocket, and they would show exactly which Asian child was absent on the day after Wu’s plane landed at JFK. Because, Gideon expected, a child in the international terminal waiting area at JFK after midnight would not likely be attending school the next day.

“Method acting,” said Gideon Crew. “On my word of honor, it’s all about Method acting. And you’re a star.”

I just wish you’d tell me what the hell’s really going on!” Orchid said as they rounded the corner of 51st and Park. Gideon walked fast. He’d been avoiding her questions all the way back, trying to focus on his next move. And she was getting increasingly pissed at his evasions.

She struggled to keep up. “Damn it, why won’t you talk to me?”

Gideon sighed. “Because I’m tired of lying to people. Especially you.”

“So tell me the truth, then!”

“It isn’t safe.” They walked past the iron gates of Saint Bart’s park and Gideon heard a brief strain of old Blues music from a street musician. He suddenly halted and listened. The faint strains of the guitar floated to him over the sounds of midday traffic.

He placed a hand on her arm. “Wait.”

“You can’t keep me in the dark—”

He gave her arm a light warning squeeze and she stopped talking. “Just be cool,” he murmured. “Don’t react.”

He listened to the faint music, the raspy singing.

In my time of dyin’

Don’t want nobody to mourn

“What is it?” Orchid whispered.

Gideon answered with more gentle pressure. He turned and pretended to answer his cell phone, giving them an excuse to be standing there, listening.

All I want for you to do

Is to take my body home.

Gideon recognized it as a Blind Willie tune, “In My Time of Dyin’.” It aroused in him a faint sensation of déjà vu, and he searched his mind for where he had recently heard that same bottleneck guitar.

Bottleneck guitar.

It was on Avenue C. It wasn’t a guitar, but a bum humming that same old Blues tune. When he was leaving the diner. He pictured the dark street and he remembered a bum sitting on a stoop, humming — just humming.

Well, well, well so I can die easy

Well, Well, Well

Well, Well, Well so I can die easy

Now he listened with care. The guy was good. More than good. Not flashy, not technical, but playing easy and slow, as a real Delta Blues tune should be played. But as Gideon listened, he realized that some of the lyrics were different from the version he knew best; this was another version, one he wasn’t as familiar with.

Jesus gonna make up

Jesus gonna make up

Jesus gonna make up my dyin’ bed.

The revelation struck him hard. Disguising his surprise, he shut his phone as if the call were over and urged Orchid forward by the arm, toward the awning of the Waldorf. As soon as they were inside he quickened his pace, propelling her through the lobby, past the giant urn of flowers, toward Peacock Alley.

“Hey! What the hell?”

They swept past the maître d’, brushing aside his proffered menus, walked through the restaurant to the back, and pushed through the double doors into the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” The voice of the maître d’ was drowned out by the clatter of pots and shouts. “Sir, you can’t—”

But Gideon was already moving fast toward the rear of the kitchen. He pushed through another set of double doors into a long hallway lined with giant walk-in refrigerators.

“Come back here!” came the maître d’s distant voice. “Someone call security!”

Gideon took a sharp turn, blew through a third set of doors, and ended up in an inner receiving bay. Continuing on, a protesting Orchid following in his wake, he trotted through the bay and onto the outside receiving dock, clambered down the steps, and ran down a short alley to 50th Street, still hustling Orchid along. He swiftly crossed the street through blaring traffic, trotted two blocks uptown, entered the Four Seasons Restaurant, ran up the stairs to the upper level of the Pool Room, and entered the kitchen.